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On-court rivalry never really meant much to Atsumu beyond the 18 × 9 square meter fence he’s come to call home. Though it may not look like it, he’s not quite the type who takes playful competition to heart—except maybe when it comes to Osamu. No, he enjoys provoking people, enjoys watching them squirm in discomfort or explode in anger, but that’s just about it. He doesn’t actually wish for the downfall of anyone in the Adlers’ team, nor does he genuinely wish to crush them to a pulp—even if he acts like it.
Now, though, as he watches the guys from the Adlers team all huddled around Shoyo, he feels that petty, vicious possessiveness rise within him.
It was Meian who had suggested that they all go out to dinner. At the time, it had been an exciting prospect; Atsumu had wanted to mess around with the other team over a couple rounds of drinks—after that amazing game they just had, how could he not?
But this proves to, in fact, be a terrible idea because not only did he end up drinking glass after glass on his own, but all they only seem to care about is talking to Shoyo, hugging Shoyo, touching Shoyo.
Distastefully, he glares at Tobio, who has his arm around Shoyo’s neck in a pretend chokehold. Shoyo laughs at the banter and pretends to push him away, but Tobio doesn’t let up. Bokuto, never one to miss the fun, then joins the tangled mess, tugging at Tobio’s arm to “save” Shoyo, while Kourai eagerly tries to “break up” the “fight”. Wakatoshi and Nicollas stand close by, occasionally offering commentary—but Nicollas is more like hounding Shoyo for anecdotes he can tell his son about the “Ninja”.
“Ugh, this sucks!” Atsumu groans into his glass, downing the rest of his beer in one go. Then, finally, he tears his eyes away from the scene and calls loudly for another beer. It’s served quickly enough, and he downs it just as fast.
Kiyoomi looks at him with a disgusted look on his face, before following his fiery gaze to see the guys all over Shoyo. “So that’s what this is about,” he surmised. “If you’re so jealous, why don’t you just go over there and steal Hinata away?”
Atsumu gives him a deadpan look. “It really warms my heart to know that you think so highly of me, Omi-kun,” he says, Kansai accent lost in the slurry quality his voice begins to take. “But, ah, well—you might not be wrong there.”
“This is the part where I walk away to avoid hearing your idiocy,” Kiyoomi sighs.
“See, as much as I wanna, Omi,” Atsumu continues, ignoring the curly-haired man’s snide remarks. “I don’t really wanna take this moment away from Shoyo-kun. It’s been so long since he’s seen everyone—of course they would be all over him. I don’t blame them. Like mine, Shoyo-kun’s left a pretty huge dent in their lives, and I don’t wanna take that away from him, you know?”
Kiyoomi is silent for a long time so Atsumu has to turn his head and face him. “What?” he asks. “Say something.”
“I’m surprised you had it in you to say something so… wise.” He grimaced, shuddering. “Yeah, that’s not something I’ll say about you ever again. In any case, I always thought you were shallower than that.”
Atsumu grunted. “I was about to start bawling, but then you just had to go right ahead and tell me shit like that.”
“Someone has to keep you on your toes, I suppose,” Kiyoomi says, before making a move to leave. Atsumu shoots his hand out on instinct to grab him—but Kiyoomi darts out of the way in the nick of time. “I’m not your babysitter,” he says over his shoulder as he goes to join Meian, who is sitting with the rest of the milder guys at one table.
“Omi-kun,” Atsumu whines, letting the syllable drag out. This, of course, does not compel Kiyoomi to turn back around. At once accepting his fate, he finishes his beer and yells for another round.
Never once straying his eyes from Shoyo and his crowd of admirers, Atsumu drinks and drinks and drinks away the heaviness on his chest; drinks and drinks and drinks away until his vision blurs, head barely balancing atop his neck, and finally the darkness claims him.
The next time he opens his eyes, it’s because Hinata’s shaking him awake. “Tsumu-chan,” he says lightly. “It’s time to go.”
Atsumu’s blood still feels like it’s buzzing from the alcohol, yet he can tell exactly what he is doing, who he is with, and what he wants to say. Leaning into Hinata’s warmth, he pouts. “So you remember I exist, after all,” he relents. “I thought for sure you’d have forgotten me since you seemed to be having so much with the other guys.”
Confusion paints Shoyo’s face, and in this light and his tipsy state of mind, Shoyo looks younger again, and Atsumu finds himself transported back to high school, nothing but a net and a promise in between them.
Then Shoyo realizes what Atsumu is implying, frowns, and punches his arm. The impact jolts Atsumu awake, pulling him out of the drunken haze, and he makes a whine of protests as he rubs his arm. He shoots daggers at the culprit. “What the hell was that for, huh?”
“You were being stupid,” Shoyo announces with a huff and a roll of his eyes. Then, the playful smirk on his face gives way to a somber line. “Ah, well,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I hadn’t gone to you all night. It’s just that…” He bites his lip, and Atsumu finds himself following the motion with his eyes. “It’s been so long since I’ve last seen them. I thought you were having fun with the others, too, so I guess it just, ah, slipped my mind, I guess.” He gives Atsumu a nervous glance. “That didn’t sound good now that I’ve said it out loud—but I’m sorry for making you feel left out.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu grumbles. “I know, Shoyo-kun. I know that. You don’t have to explain, okay? I was just being stupid like you said, s’all. Don’t you mind me.”
What surprises Atsumu is that Hinata bursts out laughing. “When did you get so cute, huh?”
“Cute?” Atsumu sputters, the tips of his ears reddening—and not from the beer. “What—?”
But he’s not able to finish the sentence, because Hinata cuts him off with a kiss. It’s long and hot and sloppy, but it’s enough to replace the childish jealousy in Atsumu’s chest with a lighter, fluttery feeling.
Describing it as overly eager butterflies in his stomach is a cliché that Atsumu normally makes fun of—but now he finds that there is no better way to describe the fuzzy feeling that overtakes him, banishing the ugly feelings from before out of every fiber in his body.
When they break apart, Atsumu has this stupidly dazed smile on his face. His lips are tingling, and he wants more and more of it—more and more of Shoyo—until they’re both wrinkly and spent and old.
Ah, what a funny feeling, this love. And how lucky he is to be sharing it with Shoyo.
“Let’s go home okay?” says Shoyo, one corner of his lips tugging up in amusement. A mischievous gleam flickers in his eyes, and he wrinkles his nose playfully. “Get you all cleaned up. You reek of beer.”
“It’s your fault!” Atsumu whines. “You got me all jealous and stuff!”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”